Three Ways To Capsize A Boat Part 6

"That's my uncle's place," said Gudrun, my driver, a stocky young woman with widely s.p.a.ced green eyes and straggly blond hair. "He's been trying to set up a free-range chicken farm for years, but the chickens keep getting blown off the hill and into the fjord."

"I'm not surprised," I said, thinking about the curious, crabbed gait of the few chickens I had seen who were braving the elements. "Back there on the road there were times when I could hardly stand up against the wind myself; it must be h.e.l.l for a hen. So how is your uncle dealing with the problem?"

"He ties them to rocks," she replied. "The rocks are big enough so the wind can't blow the chicken away, and yet small enough so that the chicken can drag them about. Look, there's one over there."

I turned to where she was pointing and watched, entranced, as a fine speckled-white hen dragged a rock laboriously up the hill through the gra.s.s, occasionally lifted bodily and tumbled back by the wind. Two others soon hobbled after her. These people are survivors These people are survivors, I thought to myself. Survivors and stickers and lateral thinkers Survivors and stickers and lateral thinkers.

Getting a lift in the back of a pickup truck heading toward Reykjavik, I was overtaken by a dust storm. The world disappeared in a whirling brown mist, and I emerged caked from head to toe in the finest volcanic dust. This gave me an excuse to go and wallow one more time in the public pool before I rejoined the boat, where Ros had cooked us up a stew of horse, and the news was that we were putting to sea the following morning.

We were about to embark on the last, the longest, and by far the most dangerous leg of the journey.

* A knot, incidentally, is one nautical mile per hour ... and a nautical mile is a little longer than a land mile, being one-sixtieth of one degree of lat.i.tude-also referred to as a "minute." Knowing this, you can calculate, in case you've ever wondered, the circ.u.mference of the earth: it's sixty times three hundred and sixty ... or twenty-one thousand six hundred nautical miles. A knot, incidentally, is one nautical mile per hour ... and a nautical mile is a little longer than a land mile, being one-sixtieth of one degree of lat.i.tude-also referred to as a "minute." Knowing this, you can calculate, in case you've ever wondered, the circ.u.mference of the earth: it's sixty times three hundred and sixty ... or twenty-one thousand six hundred nautical miles.

Lost at Sea

NOT LONG AFTER WE left Iceland the wind dropped altogether and the sea calmed to a long gla.s.sy swell-the ocean equivalent of rolling prairie land. We had turned on the engine and were chugging at a steady pace with the chill light breeze, created by our forward motion, competing with a rare burst of sunshine. It was one of those interludes where all the men coincided on the deck: Patrick and Tom checking their s.e.xtants, John manning the c.o.c.kpit, while Mike and I lolled about for a few moments absorbing a little of the sun's wan rays. left Iceland the wind dropped altogether and the sea calmed to a long gla.s.sy swell-the ocean equivalent of rolling prairie land. We had turned on the engine and were chugging at a steady pace with the chill light breeze, created by our forward motion, competing with a rare burst of sunshine. It was one of those interludes where all the men coincided on the deck: Patrick and Tom checking their s.e.xtants, John manning the c.o.c.kpit, while Mike and I lolled about for a few moments absorbing a little of the sun's wan rays.

This was not exactly sunbathing; you'd have been a fool to take off your heavy weather gear, gloves, and woolly hat, but even the palest of suns peering feebly through a lowering arctic sky can impart a certain warmth to body and spirits. There was a perceptible change of mood on the boat, a lightheartedness that seemed to spread and infect us all. You'd hear bursts of song, s.n.a.t.c.hes of poetry, and the most inane jokes.

Hannah appeared on deck dolled up in thick layers of wool topped off by the red mackintosh and wellies. She was clutching Rowena, whom she placed carefully inside a coil of rope near the cabin door, while she arranged a new bed for her. Behind her emerged Ros with a tray of tea and some flapjacks that she and Hannah had just taken from the stove. She sat with us on the edge of the c.o.c.kpit, enjoying a rare moment of relaxation while we polished off the plateful. Throughout, though, she kept one eye on Hannah and the other on the surrounding sea, scanning it for the first signs of the change that we all knew would be coming. For a calm does not last long in the North Atlantic, and although there was a feeling of relaxation and ease, there was also a sense, not quite of dread, but of antic.i.p.ation.

On we ran toward the west across the mirrorlike surface of the ocean, surging over the great hills of the swell. We shivered and, for a little warmth, turned our faces away from the headwind, and slipped our gloved hands beneath our armpits; you never put your hands in your pockets on a boat, as you never know when you might need them in a hurry.

The gentlest of breezes was growing, fanning in dark patches across the smooth surface of the swell, but coming, predictably enough, from almost dead ahead. This made the headwind stronger, and consequently colder. Ros gathered up the now shivering Hannah and went below, followed by everyone else, leaving me alone at the wheel. They shut the companionway doors, to keep the heat in, with just a little gap at the top through which I could almost see the compa.s.s. I was steering 285 degrees, west by northwest ... supposedly.

Supper was served; a good idea to eat during a period of calm. I enjoyed the feeling of being alone on deck listening to the clatter of crockery and the pleasing sounds of people eating together, talking and laughing. Even nicer was to be at the helm alone at night, while all the others, except Patrick, who would be busy at his unfathomable tasks with the ropes and sails, lay deep in sleep. It gave me a wonderful feeling of responsibility, of steering my friends safely through the night.

Patrick relieved me when he had eaten his fill, and I went below into the warmth of the cabin. My face burned as I shed the heavy canvas coat-Swedish army surplus, which protected me through the foulest weather-and sat down to a.s.suage my raging appet.i.te. Constantly being cold makes you very hungry.

When I returned to the deck, tearing myself away from the warm fug of the cabin and the pleasures of after-dinner conversation, that gentlest of breezes had become an icy wind. "Here, take the wheel, will you, Chris," said Patrick as I gloved up, thin woolen gloves inside heavy mittens. "I'm going forward to trim up the sails. I've had to bear away a little; see if you can make two seven five and keep the sails drawing."

I settled happily to the wheel, standing astride in front of it and holding on to the spokes behind my back. It was a good feeling, bowing your knees with the bounding motion of the boat and heading into the gray twilight of an arctic night. There was, though, a solidly ominous bank of clouds building darkly to the west, and by the time Patrick slid back into the c.o.c.kpit twenty minutes later, the wind had freshened strongly, bringing with it a stinging sleet and a nasty steep chop to the waves. It looked like we were heading for a storm, and fast.

Hirta heeled hard over as Patrick sheeted in the sails, and our pleasant afternoon of calm was quickly over. He leaned down and switched off the engine, and the sounds of the sea and the old boat rea.s.serted themselves: the thump and hiss as the bow burst into each wave, the creaking and straining of the boom, the whistling of the fresh breeze among the shrouds, the sort of sounds that imprint themselves forever on your very soul. By eleven o'clock we were being battered by a ceaseless procession of fierce waves, and the wind that earlier had been whistling was nearer now to howling as heeled hard over as Patrick sheeted in the sails, and our pleasant afternoon of calm was quickly over. He leaned down and switched off the engine, and the sounds of the sea and the old boat rea.s.serted themselves: the thump and hiss as the bow burst into each wave, the creaking and straining of the boom, the whistling of the fresh breeze among the shrouds, the sort of sounds that imprint themselves forever on your very soul. By eleven o'clock we were being battered by a ceaseless procession of fierce waves, and the wind that earlier had been whistling was nearer now to howling as Hirta Hirta shouldered her way through the unrelenting seas. shouldered her way through the unrelenting seas.

"This is more like it," yelled Patrick, wiping the stinging spray from his eyes. "Now we're making some real progress."

I grinned at him in uncertain connivance as I cowered from the blast, teeth chattering, in the shelter of the cabin door. It looked to me as if Hirta Hirta was taking a bit of a beating, but I can't deny that hammering, as we were, into the teeth of the rising storm was pretty exciting, and if Patrick reckoned it was all right, then it probably was. was taking a bit of a beating, but I can't deny that hammering, as we were, into the teeth of the rising storm was pretty exciting, and if Patrick reckoned it was all right, then it probably was.

Half an hour later, though, as the full gloomy twilight of the arctic night closed around us, things were starting to look threatening. The wind was now a full gale, howling in the rigging; we were constantly lashed by spray as far back as the c.o.c.kpit, and the lee or downwind rail was under green water most of the time.

Suddenly the cabin doors burst open and Tom's head appeared. He looked around him incredulously. "What the f.u.c.k's going on here, you pair of clowns? What in h.e.l.l's name are you trying to do ... drown us all?" he yelled above the roar of water and wind.

"It's OK," shouted Patrick. "She's taking it in her stride ..."

"It's b.l.o.o.d.y well not OK. We're putting a couple of reefs in right away. Everybody on deck, now!" Tom shouted down below. "Safety lines, everybody, and Ros, can you take the wheel?" Ros had appeared in the c.o.c.kpit and seemed to inhabit the s.p.a.ce with a quiet authority I hadn't noticed before. "Head her into wind; keep her as steady as you can," Tom told her, before shouting, "Patrick: sheet in the staysail and jib tight as they'll go. John: drop the mainsail, quick as you can now. Chris and Mike: furl the jib, right up, and don't forget to hang on to the furling line. Then everybody get ready to gather the sail and tie it tight, double reefing."

As Hirta Hirta came round head to wind, all h.e.l.l broke loose. The foresails flogged with a noise like thunder until Patrick sheeted them hard in. When you're straight into wind you catch the waves at an angle to the bow, so the boat yaws and rolls and pitches all at the same time. It's impossible to get a footing because of the waves, tons of green water breaking over the deck. It's h.e.l.lish, and truly terrifying. You snap your safety line on to whatever solid thing you can, but more often than not it restricts your freedom of movement, so you unclip it and take the risk. And it is a risk. If you went over the side, you'd be gone for good. There would be no chance at all of finding you, let alone picking you up in this sort of sea, and you'd be frozen stiff in a matter of minutes, anyway. came round head to wind, all h.e.l.l broke loose. The foresails flogged with a noise like thunder until Patrick sheeted them hard in. When you're straight into wind you catch the waves at an angle to the bow, so the boat yaws and rolls and pitches all at the same time. It's impossible to get a footing because of the waves, tons of green water breaking over the deck. It's h.e.l.lish, and truly terrifying. You snap your safety line on to whatever solid thing you can, but more often than not it restricts your freedom of movement, so you unclip it and take the risk. And it is a risk. If you went over the side, you'd be gone for good. There would be no chance at all of finding you, let alone picking you up in this sort of sea, and you'd be frozen stiff in a matter of minutes, anyway.

Tom was unruffled; he gave orders with absolute coolness as he hauled the boom in amidships and kept an eye on every one of us. Ros, too, seemed to keep resolutely calm as she battled skillfully with the bucking wheel. As the sodden mainsail crashed down onto the boom, we all leaped to gather it and tie down the first reef. Each of a dozen ropes had to be pa.s.sed beneath the sail and tied.

With the crazed rolling of the boat, the icy cold in your fingers, the difficulty of getting a purchase with your feet, and the cold, cold terror gnawing at your very innards, this is not an easy task. When we finally got the first reef tied, John dropped the sail a bit farther and we set to tying in the second reef.

The whole job took about half an hour, then we hauled the now-much-reduced sail back up and tightened the outhauls. Tom cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled down the screaming wind: "OK, Ros, pay her off the wind now and see how she sails like that." Ros spun the wheel until the sails bellied out with wind and Hirta Hirta drove her bow into the boiling waves once more. drove her bow into the boiling waves once more.

"Patrick," said Tom, as we tumbled back into the shelter and relative calm of the c.o.c.kpit. "Please don't ever do a thing like that again, not on my boat and not with a single member of my family and my crew onboard."

"Come on, Tom, it wasn't that bad, and we both know the old girl was up to it well enough." Patrick was bristling, but there was an element of sheepishness in his voice.

"This boat is a hundred years old, Patrick. She's well built and she's sound, but there's a limit, and you took her all the way to that limit. I shouldn't need to say this, but I'm the skipper and it's my responsibility to get you all safely to landfall. I cannot have you driving the boat on as if this were some sort of b.l.o.o.d.y military maneuver."

Tom was furious, but he just about managed to rein himself in. The restraint was more intimidating than any outburst would have been.

"You're right, Tom," said Patrick. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

AS IT WAS WELL into the after-midnight watch, Patrick and I sloped off guiltily to our bunks for a couple of hours' sleep. Sleep, or at least rest, is mandatory, as you need to be fit enough to take the next watch. into the after-midnight watch, Patrick and I sloped off guiltily to our bunks for a couple of hours' sleep. Sleep, or at least rest, is mandatory, as you need to be fit enough to take the next watch.

So I slumbered, listening fearfully to the storm that was still gathering strength. I was in my sleeping bag, wearing long johns and a T-shirt, with my moleskin trousers and heap of sodden jerseys at the foot of the bed and my oilskins hanging on a hook nearby. When the storm had started we'd each of us rigged up a lee cloth, a canvas strip tied to hooks above the berth, to stop ourselves from being hurled bodily from our beds.

As I lay there, thinking perhaps a little guiltily about Ana and her worries on my behalf that I'd so glibly dismissed, I became aware of John tumbling down the stairs and disappearing into the saloon to wake the skipper. A minute later Tom joined him by the chart table and I listened to them conferring. "We can't carry on like this," a.s.serted John. "The weather's still getting fiercer. If we don't put the third reef in a bit quick, we could lose the mast."

I was already groping under my pillow for my gla.s.ses when Tom's s.h.a.ggy mane poked into my berth. "Get your b.u.t.t up there on deck, Chris. Time for a third reef. Now!"

He went to wake Patrick while I rolled out of the berth, crawled into my oilskins, and staggered up the pitching companionway steps straight from the warmth of my rank berth into the awfulness of a full gale on an arctic night.

"Right," said Tom. "You know what to do; do it. I'll take the wheel."

The third and last reef was a little easier than the others, as there was less sail to deal with and fewer ties, although this was offset by the fact that the ferocity of the wind and the water was even more intense. We began like sleepwalkers, moving slowly, sleepily, but once smacked in the chops with a bucketful of icy green water, one is very quickly back on the alert and moving fast.

Half an hour later Tom steered Hirta Hirta away from the wind to a point where she could just make headway through the now towering seas. "I reckon that's a full storm; about force ten now," he yelled above the thunderous howling of the elements. "Patrick and Chris, go and get some rest. Mike, go and make us some tea and we'll see if we can't make some sort of progress through this horror." away from the wind to a point where she could just make headway through the now towering seas. "I reckon that's a full storm; about force ten now," he yelled above the thunderous howling of the elements. "Patrick and Chris, go and get some rest. Mike, go and make us some tea and we'll see if we can't make some sort of progress through this horror."

Patrick and I crawled back below to our respective berths and attempted to salvage what little remained of our hours of rest-hard to do when distracted by the thought of a wall of gray water bursting asunder the cabin doors and drowning us like rats in a rabbit hutch, but exhaustion must have settled the matter.

In no time at all, I was shaken rudely awake by Mike. It was four in the morning.

"Hey, there's a storm out there and it's your turn to get out and in it," he said with a nauseating grin.

"Is it getting any better?" I asked.

"Nope," he answered, straight-faced this time. "It's a whole lot worse."

Getting into sopping, wet, icy clothes at four o'clock on a morning when you've been up most of the night is n.o.body's idea of fun. The violent motion of the boat made it an almost Herculean labor just to get a sock on. I asked myself if this really were the path to take in search of beauty ... surely there must be less disagreeable ways.

I staggered out into a world of whirling grays. The sky was boiling down upon us in racing gray clouds; the sea was an unrelenting confusion of huge waves, each filling the air with its shattered crests of spray. John, drenched right through, gave me a wry grin from the wheel. 'We don't seem to be getting anywhere anyway, but see if you can't make due west, two seven zero.'

I wedged myself in beside the wheel, pulled my hat down over my gla.s.ses, and appraised the situation. We were beating violently into a gray nothingness that whirled all about us. Hirta Hirta was sailing with just the staysail and a tiny patch of triple-reefed main. One minute the view was filled with nothing but a towering wall of gray water, and then we plunged into the trough and up the other side, to see nothing but the whirling gray tumult of the sky. Down in the troughs of the waves we would lose the wind, and the boat would momentarily right herself before being hurled aloft by the next wave, where the sails would again be taken by the wind and she would heel hard over once more. The motion was truly awful. And there was nothing to give a moment's comfort; not the sun nor the moon nor even the stars, nor the sight of a distant sh.o.r.e ... just the crazed, if companionable, stares of the fulmars as they wheeled easily among the raging waves. was sailing with just the staysail and a tiny patch of triple-reefed main. One minute the view was filled with nothing but a towering wall of gray water, and then we plunged into the trough and up the other side, to see nothing but the whirling gray tumult of the sky. Down in the troughs of the waves we would lose the wind, and the boat would momentarily right herself before being hurled aloft by the next wave, where the sails would again be taken by the wind and she would heel hard over once more. The motion was truly awful. And there was nothing to give a moment's comfort; not the sun nor the moon nor even the stars, nor the sight of a distant sh.o.r.e ... just the crazed, if companionable, stares of the fulmars as they wheeled easily among the raging waves.

Things were getting so nasty that I decided to strap myself into the c.o.c.kpit with the safety line. There was so much water breaking over the boat that I feared I might be swept away if a freak wave were to swamp us. It was a truly terrifying situation: we were three hundred miles from the nearest land, with no means of communication with any rescue services, and being tossed about like a feather in a whirlwind aboard a hundred-year-old sailing boat.

"This is nothing," shouted Tom, who appeared beside me in the c.o.c.kpit, and seemed to understand exactly what was going through my mind. "It's nasty ... very nasty ... but this boat's been around for the best part of a century; she's been through a lot worse."

"But what about you?" I hollered. "Have you been in worse storms than this?"

"Many a time ... and in less seaworthy boats; Hirta Hirta will see us through. Don't you worry about it." will see us through. Don't you worry about it."

Tom's voice was rea.s.suring, but his face was set grim as he a.s.sessed the constantly changing situation and made the necessary decisions. For myself, I just wanted to avert my eyes from the awfulness of the tormented sea and sky around us. But I was on the helm and couldn't avoid looking at the sea. It had a hypnotic effect. The monstrousness of it made it seem unreal, although it was the realest, coldest, wettest, most immediate and overpowering force I had ever faced.

And then I saw something I don't ever want to see again as long as I live: a colossal wall of dull gray water was bearing down on us. It obscured the very sky; it stood half as high as the mast. There was no way we could avoid being swamped. My legs went weak and I whimpered inwardly. "Oh s.h.i.t!" I cried (disappointing as last utterances go, I know, but there it is) and steeled myself for the crashing impact of a million merciless tons of seawater. At the same time I hauled on the wheel to steer into the wave. The bow rose, and Hirta Hirta seemed to look up like a tiny David confronting Goliath ... and then ... the monster just vanished. It rolled away beneath us. I looked behind as we surfed down the far side of it, and there it was, roaring away to the east. I almost wept with relief, and my heart welled with affection for the simple contrivance of hewn and shaped tree trunks that bore us safely across the fathomless abyss. seemed to look up like a tiny David confronting Goliath ... and then ... the monster just vanished. It rolled away beneath us. I looked behind as we surfed down the far side of it, and there it was, roaring away to the east. I almost wept with relief, and my heart welled with affection for the simple contrivance of hewn and shaped tree trunks that bore us safely across the fathomless abyss. Hirta Hirta had taken the wave in her stride. Our skipper was right. had taken the wave in her stride. Our skipper was right.

He looked far from complacent, though, sitting solid and square in the corner of the c.o.c.kpit, staring gravely at the storm. I watched him with one eye as I responded with the wheel to the dip and tug and roll of the boat each time she plunged into the trough of a wave or crashed over the crest. It was no longer a matter of steering a compa.s.s course; you just steered over each wave as it bore down upon the boat.

"What are you thinking, Tom?" I asked, when I couldn't stand the silence anymore.

He bit his lip for a moment longer, then said, "What I'm thinking is ... we're not getting anywhere. There's too much wind, too heavy a sea, and it's all against us. It's taking h.e.l.l out of the boat, taking h.e.l.l out of all of us."

He stopped to think a bit more, still chewing his lip.

"We have two options: we can turn and run before the storm, head back for Iceland ..."

"Or ... ?" I asked.

"Or ... or we heave to, batten down the hatches, and just ride the storm out. It's a couple of c.r.a.p options, but there you go. We'll put it to the vote."

IN THE EVENT, n.o.bODY wanted to run back to Iceland, abandoning all the westerly progress we had already made. n.o.body much fancied heaving to, either, but it seemed the better option, so that's what we did. wanted to run back to Iceland, abandoning all the westerly progress we had already made. n.o.body much fancied heaving to, either, but it seemed the better option, so that's what we did.

Looking back on it, it seems almost beyond belief that we would just have stopped right out there in the middle of the North Atlantic, stopped dead, rocking about day after day in our infinitesimal speck of a boat. There we were, suspended in tumult somewhere between the moon and the core of the earth, seven minuscule humans, tossed like a walnut in a millrace, waiting, just waiting, for the anger of the storm to pa.s.s.

To prepare for heaving to, we lashed the wheel to starboard and pulled the two sails in so they were angled to channel the winds safely, like sheep through a pen. The result was that the wind steadied the boat while driving us very slowly sideways back where we had come from.

One man would be on watch at all times, tied into the c.o.c.kpit. One-hour watches; after that you'd be frozen half to death, to say nothing of being frightened out of your wits. Down below we did what we could to adopt some semblance of normal human existence; not all that easy when you've six people tumbling around in the confines of a tiny wooden cabin. I wondered at the infinite capacity of human beings to adapt.

Ros, strapped tightly into the galley, cooked meals, wonderful meals of mutton and bacon and beans. The cooker, like all the oil lamps in the cabin, was on gimbals-an ingenious system of pivots that meant that it stayed horizontal no matter what the angle of the boat; otherwise the pans would have been constantly slopping their hot contents all over the cook. The cabin table was fitted with a fiddle, a raised wooden surround, which, with the aid of some miraculously sticky place mats, prevented the plates flying off the table into the laps of first the diners on one side, then on the other.

We adopted strategies for dealing with everything: you timed your lunge from galley to table with your plate of stew, to the pitching of the boat. The pitching was more or less predictable, so in one lunge you could get to the bulkhead at the end of the chart table. There you wedged yourself in tight, holding the stew aloft, while the boat toppled crazily over the other way; then, as she started to come over again, you made the final dive and at the bottom of the roll slumped neatly down onto the seat and waited for the next roll to slap your stew down on the nonslip mat. Thus seven people fed three times a day.

When we weren't eating, we would read ... some would have their heads deep in the Vinland sagas, or some earnest nautical tome. I myself found it impossible to concentrate on anything more complex than Edward Lear and so, at Hannah's insistence, reverted to reciting "The Jumblies." Oddly enough, I derived the greatest comfort from joining her in declaiming: And when the Sieve turned round and round And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"

They called aloud, "Our Sieve ain't big, But we don't care a b.u.t.ton! We don't care a fig!

In a Sieve we'll go to sea!"

We may have been in the middle of a nightmare, but that didn't mean we were without pleasures; after all, you can only be catatonic with fright for a certain limited period. When the source of the fear is with you night and day, roaring and whirling just an oaken hull away from you and your dinner, your fear-and I make no bones about admitting that I was absolutely terrified-soon takes second place to other, gentler things: conversation, laughter, reading, hope, the minutiae of daily existence. Also there was the inspiring example of little Hannah, who seemed hardly perturbed at all. She had adapted immediately, in the way that children will, to her new environment. Ros and Tom would read to her and play, just as if they were at home in their cozy cottage in the New Forest, and she was happy.

There was an odd sort of coziness about the situation, too. The saloon was lit by oil lamps, which cast the most romantic glow, and a comforting warmth came from the little potbellied stove in the corner. Everywhere you looked there was some big lug of a man sprawled out like a dog, reading a book or dozing, rocking involuntarily with the motion of the boat. And there was a heavy and complex odor about the place, composed of diesel, meat stew, the fishy smell of the sea, outbreaks of flatulence, and the putrid miasma of unwashed bodies and wet wool. This was far from pleasant, but you can get to like anything with familiarity. As I said, it was oddly cozy.

BY COMMON CONSENT, EVEN when things were as bad as they were now, we the men would go on deck to take a leak. The heads could become unpleasantly congested with the daily traffic of five men, so they were reserved for what you might call sit-down occasions, and for the more refined use of Hannah and Ros. when things were as bad as they were now, we the men would go on deck to take a leak. The heads could become unpleasantly congested with the daily traffic of five men, so they were reserved for what you might call sit-down occasions, and for the more refined use of Hannah and Ros.

Now, as you may imagine, it was far from pleasant going up onto the storm-lashed deck to relieve yourself, so you would try and hold things in until it was your watch, when you had to go on deck anyway. This was not always possible, though. You might, for instance, be in your berth, thinking ruefully of your loved ones and the home you suspected you might not get to see again, and little by little that familiar old insistent urge would steal over you. It might be one o'clock in the morning, and you're not on watch till four. You wonder if perhaps you could hold it back ... for three hours? No, impossible. You lie back and try to forget it.... Maybe it'll go away. You try to think of something different, but to no avail.

And so, wearily, you set the long tedious process in motion: first you unzip your sleeping bag, whereupon most of that lovely warmth you have worked so hard to create vanishes. Then you wriggle out of its clinging silken folds and the tangle of the woolen inner. Next you reach up in the dark to untie the lee cloth, grateful that you were sensible enough to tie it properly with a couple of bows, because little by little the urge is getting stronger upon you now. With the lee cloth down, you have a little more freedom of movement, so you reach down and, with an unimaginable contortion, take hold of your sopping-wet moleskin trousers and fight your way into them, still supine and in the dark. By the time you fasten the zip you are exhausted, so you lie back for a moment and groan quietly to yourself.

Now it's time to roll out of the berth and wedge yourself into the dark pa.s.sage, while you scrabble about for the three or four layers of upper woolens that are essential if you're not going to freeze up solid the moment you emerge from the cabin. This takes a long time, because the sweaters are partly inside out and partly the right way around, and they're wet and moldering, and also because while this is going on you are being hurled back and forth like a fish in a washing machine.

Now to select your boots from the heap haphazardly tumbled by the companionway steps. You squeeze your feet into them, only to find that you have left a pair of thick sopping-wet socks scrunched up in the bottom. By this time you are so desperate for relief that you can't think straight, so you put on somebody else's boots ... but you're not there yet. No, not by a long chalk.

Oilskins are next, and getting into oilskin trousers with your boots already on is hard enough in bright daylight on dry land. You wonder if maybe you ought to take the boots off and put the trousers on without the boots, but then you remember that the trousers must be outside the boots or else your boots will be full of seawater within five seconds of going outside.

Braces over the shoulders, and on with the oilskin jacket; b.u.t.ton it up and zip it to keep the wind and waves out. Spectacles next, a quick swipe to clean them, woolen hat, and finally wet wool gloves and you're ready, and not before time, as your bladder's on the point of exploding. You grasp the companionway rail and climb the first step ... Oh-oh ... what about your safety line? Back down into the cabin, untangle it from all the others on the same hook, slip it over your shoulders, clip it together at the front, and scuttle back down the pa.s.sage and up the ladder.

You burst through the doors. The icy blast almost knocks the breath from your body. There's Mike lashed into the c.o.c.kpit, salt spray streaming down his gla.s.ses, his mouth open like a dying cod. He wants to talk because he's been sitting there like that for the last hour with nothing but the wind and the waves for company.

You ignore him and with an oath and a grunt ... because things are getting beyond a joke now ... you scramble out of the c.o.c.kpit and head as best you can for the lee shrouds.

b.u.g.g.e.r the safety line; you've got to get there fast now. You slip as a wave bursts over the bow, bark your shin on the cabin skylight, and roll down into the scuppers beneath the rail. That's OK, it's more or less where you need to be, anyway. Grabbing the shroud, you haul yourself to your feet and snap the safety line onto it.

Now I know that there will be those who may find this indelicate, but I feel constrained to relate here a particular difficulty that flings itself in the path of this most natural bodily function. The sensitive reader might prefer to skip a page or two and join us later on the trip, as these are details that I feel must be chronicled.

So there you are, shackled safely to the lee shrouds, up to your knees in raging green water. The lee side, you see, being downwind, is more often than not completely under water. (One of the first lessons you learn when you start sailing is-for reasons that are pretty obvious-not to pee off the windward side of a boat.) Now at this point there's a terrible danger that you might momentarily lose the urge and decide that you don't actually want to take a leak after all and that you might as well just return to your cabin. But it's a delusion and you delay at your peril. Luckily you are wise to this; it has happened too many times before. You remove your gloves; you cannot under any circ.u.mstances take a p.i.s.s with gloves on. This is easy enough, although, despite the fact that you have shackled the safety line to the shroud, you still have to hold on with one hand or else you'd be in and out of the water like a yoyo. Next, fumble for the b.u.t.tons and the zip on the oilskin bottoms ... not easy with your one free hand, but after a little inept fiddling about you manage to get it open.

Mike is watching you from the c.o.c.kpit with steadily increasing interest-he's that bored.

Now for the moleskins. Mine, interestingly enough, belonged to the explorer Sir Ranulph Fiennes and have the name "Ran" written in Biro on the waistband. He wore these trousers on his Arctic and Antarctic adventure and sold them off at Camden Lock along with a whole rake of other stuff from the expedition. That's where I got the fancy sleeping bag, too. But the moleskin trousers are by far my favorite possession-a reminder that we are all, in our own small way, fellow explorers.

They also have a very fine weatherproof zip, which, with frozen fingers, requires a lot of fumbling to get undone ... but somehow eventually you do. That's two layers; two more to go. Long johns, or the particular type that I was wearing, have a small aperture covered by a sort of pocket. You manage to insert a couple of questing fingers as you peer downward to see if you can see anything, which of course you can't, because your gla.s.ses are soaked in salt spray and it's almost dark and, besides, there's not that much to see anyway; these things are best done by feel.

This, of course, is where your problems begin. You search in the gap between this opening and the top of your inside underpants with increasing but unavailing desperation. Can you locate the organ in question? Like h.e.l.l you can! You're being buffeted back and forth like a shuttlec.o.c.k, it's freezing cold, and you're scared half to death. A glance back at the c.o.c.kpit confirms your suspicion that you're still being watched by Mike. If anything he's staring more intently.

Now here I should remind our readers that the male of the species is p.r.o.ne to a certain ... shall we say reticence, and indeed shrinkage, in circ.u.mstances of extreme stress. An involuntary survival mechanism kicks in to protect that which we hold dear until a less inopportune moment should present itself. You look around, startled by a shout from the c.o.c.kpit. It's the unspeakable Mike.

"What's the matter, then?" he shouts. "Can't find your d.i.c.k?" He then convulses with fatuous laughter at his own cra.s.s joke.

Your desperation increases, if that's possible. There's just got to be a p.e.n.i.s in there somewhere, surely ... it was there the last time you came on deck.

After long, long minutes of ineffectual fumbling, your search may be rewarded, but even then it's no simple matter to coax the poor thing out through the long threatening sphincter of elastic and wool and b.u.t.tons and zips. But then finally you get there, and you hang in the shrouds directing the long steaming arc into the frozen gray wastes of the North Atlantic ... oh, the sweet and blessed relief. And now back to bed.